


Limerence

by devdevlin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, But heaps later than in canon, Dark, F/M, Harry has parents, Murder, Obsessive Tom Riddle, Professor Tom Riddle, Short Chapters, Sort Of, Teacher-Student Relationship, Threats of Violence, Tom POV, Tom is older, Tom still opens the chamber, Tom’s a bit of a creep, Violence, but Hermione is legal, but not really?, no time travel, sooo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:41:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devdevlin/pseuds/devdevlin
Summary: It does not surprise him at all to know that Hermione Granger has come to think herself half in love with him.But it is not to last, and it is that night, on the night of the school's annual Hallowe'en dinner, that he knows that Hermione Granger's opinion of him is about to rapidly shift.And how could it not?Because at his feet, there is a dead body and she...She has seen it.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Voldemort
Comments: 187
Kudos: 811





	1. One

He knows her.

How could he not?

She is the brightest of his students; the one with the bushiest hair, the quickest to shoot her hand up, the one with a deeply rooted desire for praise.

And she... she knows him.

Or at least, she thinks she does, and _how could she not?_

He is the youngest professor Hogwarts has seen in decades; the one with the darkest eyes, the quickest to lose his temper, the one who can keep even her on her toes.

He has taught her for years, now. He has witnessed first-hand her slow transition from a small, timid, buck-toothed girl into a strong-willed and sharp young woman, and she is—on paper, at least—extraordinary.

She asks the sort of questions he expects from no other, provides answers more detailed than any single text book, and he knows for a fact that if it were not for the biological necessity that is sleep, she would spend all of her spare waking hours in the library.

Over the years, her diligent methods have enabled her to scrape upon each and every record mark set by he, himself, and it is no surprise that Hermione Granger has therefore been affectionately termed 'the brightest witch of her age'.

And yet...

She is extraordinary, but deep down, she is still just like the others.

He has not missed the way she tucks her hair back when she enters his classroom.

He has noticed the way she hastily averts her eyes when he catches her looking at him.

He is well aware of the roses that bloom beneath her skin when she receives his praise.

Extraordinary as she may be, she is still a teenage girl, and it is only natural that she, like the others, has come to indulge in fantasies of her young professor.

It is not a strange thing to him, being admired.

It is a burden that Tom Riddle knows all too well, and over his years he has honed it, learned to use it, wield it.

And wield it well, he does, and so no.

No, it does not surprise him at all to know that Hermione Granger has come to think herself half in love with him.

But it is not to last, and it is that night, on the night of the school's annual Hallowe'en dinner, that he knows that Hermione Granger's opinion of him is about to rapidly shift.

_And how could it not?_

Because at his feet, there is a dead body and she...

She has seen it.


	2. Two

She runs.

Bright, shining, extraordinary Miss Granger has always been a creature of logic, and so, a split second after she's seen the body in the corridor and the look on his face, she runs.

And Tom... he does the only thing he can think to do.

He chases her.

* * *

She makes it to the courtyard, but only just.

Granger is a quick little rabbit, but he is a fox and the length of her legs cannot compare to his.

She fights against his hold, and _how could she not?_

Rabbits are animals of prey, and the instinct to escape, to flee, to _survive_ , is strong.

But she is already between his jaws, and instinct alone is no match for his sharpened teeth-

"You c-can't do this," she gasps against the hand he has over her mouth, and it is not a plea for her life. It is not submissive, and it is somehow both exactly what he did and did not expect from her. It is such an absurdly stubborn thing to say— _so very, very like her_ —that he laughs.

And it is precisely then that he struggles with her.

In his amusement, his grip loosens, and she—extraordinary Miss Granger—uses it to her advantage.

Her elbow, low in his stomach, and her heel, solid against his shin grant her freedom, and though he growls, low and rabid, it does not deter her.

Her wand is raised only seconds before his own and though her arm is shaking and her breathing is uneven, her jaw is set.

Strong-willed, extraordinary, _extraordinary_ Miss Granger.

He would've laughed at the end of any other student's wand.

But he cannot see any amusement in hers, only sheer determination and blind, foolish bravery, and maybe something else, _something restrictive and chafing..._

When he disarms her, he does so quickly, silently, and her wand is out of her hand before she’s even realized it, but once she does, for the shortest of seconds, he sees _anger_ -

But then, she is retreating, backing up against the castle wall, and though the action is submissive, almost fearful, she still holds her chin high and says, in between pants, "y-you can't kill me."

The statement, bold, stubborn and fearless makes him want to clasp her neck between his hands and _snap_ it.

Not because it is an order and how dare she think she can order him of anything?

Not because she is a mudblood and _how dare she think she can order him of anything?_

But because he knows all too well, that she is entirely correct.

* * *

If Tom were to be honest, he'd say that he never much liked Hermione Granger.

She is loud, a know it all, a brown-nosing, foolish, undeserving, _extraordinary_ anomaly in his classroom, and if she were to be dead, he would not miss her.

But he knows that McGonagall would. Sprout would, Flitwick would, Dumbledore would, her far too nosy friends Weasley and Potter would, even bloody Madam Pince would.

And so, he knows that unlike quiet Myrtle Warren, she is close to untouchable, and just like that very afternoon in his own classroom, Miss Granger is once again correct.

He cannot kill her.

But there are a great many things he can take aside from her life, and so, instead, Tom Riddle takes her freedom.

.


	3. Three

Miss Granger surprises him.

He expects her to crumble. He expects her to shy away from the rest of the school, to hide in her dormitory, to spend the next week, maybe two, deteriorating in the hospital wing.

She has become a witness to murder. To most, he believes, that would be a somewhat disconcerting experience.

What he does not expect, is for her to arrive bright and early the very next morning at the school's emergency assembly, a horde of small first-years in tow.

But that is exactly what she does.

He supposes that she _is_ a Gryffindor.

While the hat may be loud and obnoxious and a terrible composer of short songs, he knows that it is very rarely incorrect in its judgement.

Only a few steps into the hall, and he is sure she has noticed him. He is seated three places down from the headmaster himself at the front of the hall, she _must_ have noticed him.

But if she has, she shows no outward sign of it, and it is only once the first-year students are all seated tidily toward the front of the hall and she is at the end of the table in the place of the Head Girl that she meets his eyes.

Her features are blank. Impassive.

 _But her eyes_...

The corner of his mouth twists upward, and it is that, he thinks, that is what drives her to look away.

And then, Dumbledore begins his address, and her eyes remain on the table the entire time.

* * *

A student had been found dead, and naturally, security in the castle had been immediately increased to the highest of levels. There were talks of closing the school and all of the students who remained were now under the strictest of curfews.

There was to be no movement of a soul under the age of eighteen without the escort of a teacher.

Miss Granger, he knows, is not one for breaking the rules. While she may spend her social hours with two of the most notorious rule-breakers in current enrollment of the school, Miss Granger is not cut of the same fabric.

She prides herself on being good, and head-strong, and righteous, and yet, it is of no surprise to him that that night, the very next night, he finds her alone in the corner of the library, studying by wand-light.

"Miss Granger."

She stiffens, but she doesn't look away from her book. He can see in the dim light provided by her wand, her throat moving as she swallows.

It is almost as if she believes if she does not acknowledge him, he will go away.

It is almost laughable.

"It is past curfew," he says.

She responds in silence and continues to read, and Tom's fingertips start to feel like they're heating up.

"Miss Granger-"

"You wanted my silence," she says, and though it is a whisper, it is, somehow, solid. "Have it."

And there it is.

Inside of her eyes—brown, the color of mud, bright and dark at the same time—is the very same feeling he'd seen at the end of her wand. It's unmissable, and his skin is heating, heating, and his collar feels too _tight_...

"You of all should know that it isn't safe to be alone in the castle," he says, and it is forced, it is rehearsed, it is exactly what he has been instructed to say should he find a student breaking curfew.

"I'm not alone though, am I?" she says, and with it, his collar is tighter, too tight, _too tight._ "You're here."

The nerve of her.

The nerve, the nerve, _the nerve of her_ , and she is-

He steps closer. "What are you reading?"

She swallows again, but she doesn't hesitate, "I'm reading about unbreakable vows."

He runs his tongue along his teeth and then, he smiles sadly. "You won't find it."

"I... excuse me?"

"What you're looking for," he says, stepping closer again, and now, at last, her book is down and she is retreating. "That _is_ what you're looking for, isn't it? How to break one?"  
  
She blinks quickly and only stops retreating when her back hits the row of shelves.

"You won't find it." He is close enough now that even in the shadowed light, he can see her eyelashes. "Go back to bed, Miss Granger."

She is trembling, now. He can see it, she is like a leaf.

But then, "y-you won't get away with it," she whispers, and his breath hitches. "Professor Dumbledore will figure it out, even without me."

Oh.

She has surprised him again.

Stubborn, strong-willed, _extraordinary Miss Granger_.

He looks over her features, her nose, her lips, though he did not consciously intend to do so. It is also not conscious when he draws his fingers to her cheek to brush the hair from it.

"If I were you, Miss Granger." His mouth feels strangely dry and he is the one swallowing, now. "I would sincerely hope that he doesn't."

She leaves then. She leaves at a speed that is very close to a run, and Tom...

He stays there, in the corner of the library for hours.


	4. Four

Tom doesn't enjoy teaching.

Six years he's been doing it now, and with each one that passes, he feels his patience for it withering away, wearing thinner and thinner.

That isn't to say he doesn't enjoy the magic—he does—and it isn't to say he doesn't enjoy the castle—he undoubtedly does.

What he doesn't enjoy, is the students.

They are ignorant, naive, slow, and tiresome, and if it were up to him, many of them wouldn't have stepped foot in Hogwarts to begin with, let alone have made it all the way to seventh year.

Miss Granger included.

But that day, the first day of classes after Warren was found dead, and one week after having found Miss Granger in the library reading about unbreakable vows, Tom is itching with excitement as the students file in.

He has a unique lesson planned for today and it is for her.

He is sure she won't enjoy it.

* * *

"When we think of the Dark Arts," he begins loudly, dramatically, and the murmuring class falls silent, "we typically think of the extremes. Humans are selfish creatures, and as such it is only natural that when we think of the Dark Arts, our minds instinctively edge towards poisons, torture, murder; magic that we perceive as being directly dangerous to our own well being."

He paces when he speaks, and though he isn't facing her, he can feel that she is watching him.

"But what we don't typically consider when we think of the Dark Arts, is the inherent power of our own words." He faces the class, then. "Does anyone have an idea of a way by which our _words_ alone may classify as a Dark Art?"

He scans the class and when he reaches the front, he sees that for once, Miss Granger does not have her hand up.

But what she does have, is fire in her eyes.

He licks his lips.

"Nobody?" He follows up, watching her pointedly. "Not even you, Miss Granger?"

A few of the students in green laugh.

"No, sir," she says, and her voice is tight. "No, I don't think I have a single idea of what you could possibly mean."

"That's a shame." He doesn't lift her eyes from hers. "I was so looking forward to your opinion this time."

He looks away then to survey the class, but before he does, he notices that her knuckles are white around her quill.

"I'll try again, shall I? Would anyone be kind enough to provide me with an example of a magically binding contract?"

This time, in response to this question, there are several hands in the air, and he doesn't need to call on any of them before one speaks out of turn. "A marriage contract, sir."

He nods. "Correct, Mr. Malfoy. Have two points to Slytherin." The chalk hovering over in front of the board curls around the words 'marriage vows'. "In certain pureblooded circles, the vows one makes on his or her wedding day are often not only legally binding, but also magically. But, generally speaking, marriage vows would not constitute as Dark Magic... anything else?"

A more timid hand shoots up.

"Sporting competitions, sir?"

"Ah, yes, also correct; well done Miss Parkinson, have another two points," he says and she, like Miss Granger would've done only days ago, smiles as her cheeks redden. "Many competitions such as the Triwizard Tournament and the Quidditch World Cup utilize magically binding contracts in their entrance conditions. But yet again, not Dark, not Dark..."

He waits until the chalk finishes its writing before he again watches the class expectantly, and sees no further hands in the air.

"There is another branch of contract that we are missing from our short list," he says, and he glances over again to see that though Granger's skin is now furiously pink, her mouth is firmly clenched shut. "An important one, the one that I would like to focus the rest of today's discussion on. Any ideas?"

The class is quiet.

"Anyone? There is even a hint for you in plain sight up on the board..."

When still none of his students speak, he smiles.

"Vows," he eventually answers himself, "come in many varieties, many other than marriage vows." He slowly crosses the room and leans against his desk. "These can be innocent enough, ones made through simple oversights in our words, and might never be formally recognized as magically binding. Or, they can be actionable, made by our actions, as is the case in what we would call a life-debt. But they can also be entirely intentional, as in the case of marriage vows, or in the case of honorable, sworn vows."

The classroom is again quiet, the void filled by the rough scratching of quills on parchment, and Tom lets his eyes brush over the class one more time, before he asks broadly, "what can you tell me about unbreakable vows? An open question, anyone may answer."

"They're unbreakable," Malfoy drawls at once, and the few around him stifle their laughs.

But while they laugh, Tom cannot help but scratch the itch to find Miss Granger once more.

She is glaring.

She is every bit as furious as he expected her to be and it is marvelous.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy. They are unbreakable," he repeats and it is with a great deal of effort that he tears his eyes from hers. "And, Draco, if you would be so kind; what do you suppose would happen, if you were to attempt to _break_ an unbreakable vow?"

Malfoy's smirk fades, but only slightly. "It's pretty obvious, isn't it sir? You break one, you die."

He grins at that. "To some, it might seem obvious. To others, perhaps less so. But yes, you are again, entirely correct. Five points to Slytherin," he says before he circles back around his desk. "And with that, we have your next extended answer essay piece. I would like three feet of parchment on my desk by four PM on Monday of your own personal opinions on the potential benefits and limitations of an unbreakable vow, the situations in which one might use them, and, _of course_ , their dangers."

There is a collective groan among the class, and _she_...

He sees that her quill has snapped in her hand.

"And for those of you who might not be clear on what I mean by 'personal opinion', that means, that you are to write your own essays, without the assistance of your classmates. This is an individual assignment, and Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter, I am looking at you. If you feel the need to take your thoughts from Miss Granger yet again, you can be certain that I will know about it."

There are low mumbles of, "yes, sir," and, "yes, Professor."

"Wonderful. Then, if we are all clear, you are dismissed to use the rest of your allocated class time conducting your own research in the library," he finishes, but then quickly adds on, "except for you, Miss Granger. I would very much appreciate it if you would stay behind for just a short moment."

As his students scramble with their belongings and begin to scarper from the classroom, he takes a seat at his desk. He remains patient as Granger is harassed by Weasley and Potter—surely being badgered about what she might've done to warrant what could only be a punishment—and while he waits, he draws a thin sheet of parchment from his top drawer and fills in the required information.

By the time he's filled in the form, she is the only one left in the classroom, but she does not approach his desk.

He looks up to find her still seated and, seeing her things still out on her table, he merely stares at her expectantly.

They remain that way for a full minute, a battle of stubbornness, before Miss Granger actually _growls._

The sound sends a shiver down his spine.

Then, she loudly pushes her chair back, the legs scraping on the stone. She packs her things angrily, slamming her books into her bag with far more force than is required, and when she finally approaches his desk, she does so with dragging feet.

She stops opposite him and glares, arms crossed across her chest and eyes thin with anger.

"Sir?" she eventually grounds out, and he is impressed that she managed even that much with her teeth so tightly clenched.

He smiles warmly at her and hands her the sheet of parchment. "For last week, in the library," he says pleasantly.

She looks at the paper in his hand as if she thinks it will burn her before she snatches it from him.

When she reads it, he thinks that she, like her quill, is going to snap.

By the coloring of her cheeks, the flaring of her nostrils, the twitching of her mouth, he thinks she will yell and tear the parchment into hundreds of tiny pieces.

He hopes she does.

_What a sight it would be._

But no, not Miss Granger, not brilliant, _extraordinary_ Miss Granger, and instead she gives him a forced and tightly controlled smile and says, "see you on Friday then. Professor."

Tom leans back, and as he watches her leave, he loosens his tie.

He watches each and every step.


	5. Five

Tom has never been one for gambling, but if he were, he would bet that it is her first detention.

Miss Granger enters the defense classroom at seven PM sharp on Friday evening, and doesn’t greet him. The sound of her shoes dragging on the stone follows her with each step, and Tom smiles at her sullen features.

She lingers by the back of the room and goes to place her bag on one of the tables in the back row-

“No." His voice leaves no room for question. "Sit here." Opposite him, on his on desk, he has cleared a space for her, and he pats it invitingly.

She remains where she is for a long while before she quietly sighs.

He smiles as if she isn't telling him she wants to murder him with her eyes and says, "you have wonderful timing, Miss Granger. I do hope you had dinner before you came, because I dare say we'll be here for quite some time."

She blinks at him blankly and drops her things, lowering into the chair opposite him.

"For your detention this evening," he continues, pushing a tall stack of parchments from his side of the desk into the space between them, "I would like for you to assist me in grading these."

To her, he knows, the opportunity to grade the work of other students is just as tempting as dinner scraps are to a dog, and at the sight of the pile, he sees her lips twitch.

"My second-year Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw class have submitted only today their half-yearly assessment. Two feet on the methods of distinction between ghost and ghoul." He doesn't miss the way Miss Granger straightens and eyes the parchments, grudgingly curious. "If I remember correctly, you received full marks for your own, all those years ago... wonderfully written."

At his compliment, she blinks and forces her eyes off of the pile, squares her jaw. "And I don't suppose you’ve considered that it might be slightly unfair to your students, having them marked by me?"

He hasn’t heard her voice in more than a day, and the anger in it makes his clothes feel tight.

He swallows and says, "not at all," before he passes her a quill.

When she takes it, he suspects that she avoids touching his skin on purpose.

They start working then, and they do it without much in the way of conversation. Their quills scratch together, the tall clock ticks away behind them, and every now and then, she asks a stiffly worded question;

_What if they’ve gotten the idea right, but haven’t expressed it very well?_

_These two have used the same sentences, should I take marks?_

A few times, they’re not questions at all;

_This one is completely off topic._

_I can’t read this handwriting._

_This one doesn’t have a name._

Each time, he answers her queries politely, and each time, his hand tightens around his thigh.

But an hour in, and she quietens. She learns from his answers, quick as ever, and they grade essays together silently.

Tom has had many students in his classroom for detentions over the years, far too many to count. Typically, the nights are long, awkward, even, and they might be his least favorite part of teaching.

But this one…

This one he quite enjoys, and he enjoys it because of her.

She works quickly, efficiently, but he can see that she is on fire. He knows it, because of the narrowing of her eyes, the puckering of her lips, the hasty pace at which she writes, the scowls she makes when she reads a particular bothersome statement.

It is amusing, and it makes him want to press his hands into her skin.

He watches her when she’s not watching him, and he enjoys every minute of it.

Two hours go by before he slips up.

It is an accident. He doesn't mean to. It slips from him without intention, and the abruptness of it nearly surprises he himself. "Why were you in the dungeons?"

Hermione jolts, glancing up from her marking, and the skin on the bridge of her nose folds to form soft wrinkles.

"...pardon?"

He leans closer. "What was it that drove you from away from dinner that night? The night you found me in the dungeons?"

Her scowl doesn’t move.

"I... I was looking for you," she says as though the idea is repulsive. "I wanted clarification. On my-" She looks at the pile of parchments and laughs lightly, but it is not at all genuine. "On my own essay. On why you gave me a fourteen. You weren't at dinner, and you weren't in your office, so I looked around, and..."

She shakes her head, and now, it is Tom’s skin that wrinkles.

For a while, he’d allowed himself to believe that she’d known.

About the basilisk, about the mudbloods, about _him_ , and that she’d intentionally sought him out, intentionally caught him in the act, but-

He can see it. It is in her repulsion, her anger, the clear sense of betrayal she’s been wearing since that night.

She is not lying, and what she’d said, it is… unexpected. It is innocent. She had caught him in what had been a game of chance, and she lost it, and now… now, she is stuck.

He doesn’t mean to laugh, but he does. "You were skipping what is arguably Hogwarts' finest dinner of the year, to see me about... schoolwork."

The skin on Granger's cheeks darken. "I... well, I just thought... it was just incredibly unfair of you, I mean, you gave _Malfoy_ a fifteen."

He snorts.

At that, Tom Riddle actually snorts and following the sound, he feels an uncomfortable prickling beneath the skin of his face, warm and foreign.

But that—her innocent, simple reason for venturing away from safety and catching him in the midst of committing murder—it is almost like fate, and she... _she_ is...

And then, he is laughing, and he cannot stop, and it is just like the heat that she started, the one festering under his skin, and _she is so_ -

“Oh, I am so very glad that you agreed to our vow, Miss Granger,” he says in between his laughs, and she is rearing back from him now. “I would have hated to have killed you.”

Her chest is moving visibly. She is blinking away what look like tears, and she is looking at him like she wants to run.

And when she does, he doesn’t stop her.

He lets her go, and after she is gone, he leans back and breathes as though he is starving.

She has taken the air with her, he thinks, as he removes his tie.

She has taken the air, and left her fire beneath his skin, and he...

He is burning.

* * *

He doesn’t sleep that night, and it is because of her.

Her puckered lips, her reddened skin, her heaving chest.

He is a mess that night, and it is because of her.


	6. Six

After his meeting with Dumbledore that afternoon, Tom is in no mood for his students.

Dumbledore had not been subtle. While the rest of the professors might adore him and take anything from him as fact, Dumbledore has—on no occasion—made him feel like a trustworthy member of staff, and in this meeting, he’d made it plainly obvious that his opinion of Tom has not changed.

_Perhaps to find the culprit, we need look inwards._

Inwards, he had said.

_Inwards_.

The other professors had not heard it, but he had, and he’d heard it loud and clear.

Dumbledore did not mean inwards as in considering the students, as the others had assumed. Not inwards as in considering the staff. But _inwards_ , as in, those present there and then in his damn office, in that _damn meeting._

Tom’s fists tighten.

Dumbledore suspects.

_Professor Dumbledore will figure it out, even without me._

_Professor Dumbledore will figure it out, even without me._

_Professor Dumbledore will figure it out, even without me._

It is _maddening_.

Tom had restrained from releasing the basilisk for years. He’d itched in his fifth year, he’d longed in his sixth, and he’d _almost_ done it in his seventh, but despite the overwhelming temptation, he’d still restrained.

And yet, even after thirteen years of restraint and nothing but perfect behavior, Dumbledore _still_ did not trust him. Nothing had ever been enough to sway him, and so, Tom had restrained no more.

He has no proof, Tom knows. Aside from Miss Granger, he left no proof to find, and there is nothing the old man can do to prove it, but nonetheless, he suspects, and _it is maddening._

Maddening, as the increasing numbers in the impure.

Maddening, as the continued secrecy of wizarding world.

Maddening, as is _she_ , his anomaly, his own personal tormentor—

He closes his eyes and stops himself.

She is nothing. She is brilliant and she is foolish, and despite what she knows, despite what she’s seen, Miss Granger is nothing. She is a teenage mudblood with a nose big enough to gouge eyes with, and she is _less_ than nothing.

He will handle Dumbledore.

He will be difficult to sway, and he will need someone to take the blame for Warren’s murder, but still, he will handle Dumbledore.

She will soon be gone, Dumbledore will not figure it out, and bright shining Miss Granger will be wrong.

* * *

Miss Granger is nothing, and yet, when she arrives at his classroom at three fifty-nine, trailing closely behind Weasley and Potter, he does not particularly mind the sight of her.

"Here, Sir," Potter says when they reach his desk, offering up his essay on unbreakable vows.

Tom takes it and looks down at it only briefly before Weasley says, "wrote it all on my own, Professor," and hands his over too.

Miss Granger doesn't say anything, merely handing him a wad of folded parchment she’d pulled from her bag.

"Thank you Weasley, Potter. Granger." She does not meet his eyes and so, Tom glances at the clock. "Considering you’ve technically entered on time, I won’t take any marks, though next time, might I advise you meet the deadline with something more tangible than the length of Weasley’s attention span. You should have your marks by Wednesday."

“Yes, Sir,” grumbles Weasley.

“Thanks, Professor.” Potter looks to be fighting a smile.

Miss Granger is silent.

He waves them off then, and the three of them scarper as hastily as they arrived.

Tom doesn’t give into the temptation to immediately look at hers, knowing that if he were to start, he wouldn’t be able to finish reading before his next class arrives. Instead, he adds the essays to the growing pile on his desk.

He looks back up at the sound of trailing footsteps to see that Miss Granger has stopped in the doorway.

When she turns back to look, features guarded, he smiles.

She returns it with a scowl and then, she is gone.

* * *

Tom stays up late that night marking the seventh-year essays, and it is tedious. It is still an effort to restrain himself from flicking through them to find hers, but he manages, instead using it as motivation to continue and marking them in the order by which they've been handed to him.

Eventually, he reaches Potter’s familiar sloppy handwriting.

The essay gives him the beginnings of a headache, and he scrawls a neat ‘10’ in the upper corner by his name.

He reaches Weasley’s.

Tom stops reading two paragraphs from the end and writes a tight ‘7’ in the corner, underlined by a ‘see me after class’.

And then, he lifts Weasley’s off of the pile and reaches Granger's essay. His fingertips are hot when he unfolds it and at the very same moment that he does, a sudden low, gurgling escapes from his throat before he even realizes it.

It is the shortest essay she's ever handed him, and as he continues to stare at it, his gurgle becomes a laugh, and then he laughs, and he laughs.

It is two words long.

It is only two words long, but those two words ignite something in him that is tight and hot and foreign, and he doesn’t think he can contain it.

**_Fuck you._ **

He puts the parchment down to pull at the skin of his face. He closes his eyes, and she has surprised him. Strong-willed, foolish, _foolish_ Miss Granger has again surprised him, and she… she is _just_

_e_

_x_

_t_

_r_

_a_

_o_

_r_

_d_

_i_

_n_

_a_

_r_

_y._

His fingertips are burning now, thrumming with something that borders on excitement.

He takes up his quill once more and writes a neat '15' in the upper corner of the page.

Then, he stops his grading for the night and goes to have a long, cold shower.


	7. Seven

The first thing Tom does when his seventh years re-enter his classroom, is hand them back their essays.

He does so slowly, one by one, taking his time with each student just so that when he reaches her desk, he will be able to see the look on her face.

"Miss Granger."

She looks up at him, and—oh—she looks _guilty_ , and when he hands her her parchment, she sheepishly takes it from him.

He remains where he is, watching as she opens it, and at once, her eyes widen.

All traces of guilt vanish, and she looks up from her grade to stare at him with accusation, and horror and _fury_ -

When Tom speaks, it is low and just for her, "well done, Miss Granger. Some of your best work yet."

And for the entire remainder of the class, he sees as she boils in her seat.

* * *

That evening, Miss Granger enters his office behind the classroom without knocking, and when she does, she brings a storm in with her.

She is a mess.

She is irate and ruffled and she is _beautiful._

The only greeting she gives is in the slamming of her palm down upon his desk, her graded sheet of parchment scrunching beneath her fingers.

" _What is this?!_ "

Tom stares, drinking her in; brilliant, foolish, _beautiful_ Miss Granger.

"Could you close the door, Miss Granger?"

"Is this- it this a _bribe?_ " In her voice, are tremors. "If you think that you... that I would... _grades_ will _not_ buy my silence!"

He sighs and flicks his wrist, and the door swings shut behind her. Then, he pushes his chair back, creating a distance between himself and his desk, between himself and her. "I was under no impression that they would."

" _It's-_ what?"

"I didn't give you full marks for your obedience, Miss Granger," he clarifies.

Her eyebrows draw together, her nostrils still twitching with her anger. "Then, _why?_ "

"I suppose I... I gave you the marks as a show of respect." He shrugs. "For years, like most, I believed when trouble found you, that Potter and Weasley were to blame. But your behavior, lately... what you wrote as an essay... _that's_ who you are, isn't it? Who you _really_ are?"

"I... what are you...? That's _nonsense_ -"

"You _hide_ , Miss Granger." He leans his body slightly forward, closer to her. "You hide in plain sight. You... you are good, I don't deny that. You're an innocent. But there's something... more, isn't there? Something that others don't see, something in you that doesn't merely want perfect scores and a perfect record. It wants _more_. It doesn't want to hide behind them, it doesn't want to be contained."

He rises now, and he circles toward her, and for once, she does not retreat.

"You hide in plain sight, just – like – me. But you... you showed me, and _now_ , I see you."

She blinks rapidly and the side of her nose is raised, half a scowl. "I am nothing like you."

The defense in her tone has him smiling. "You are everything like me."

"You're a murderer," she spits. "I am _nothing-"_

He strikes. He grips her shoulders tightly, roughly, pushing her back so that her legs collide with his desk, and though she gasps, and he can feel her muscles contracting through her clothing, she makes no attempt to run.

"Fuck you, you told me." He leans in closer and his voice is low. "That's what you wrote, and it was honest, wasn't it? You were honest. You were finally unapologetically, yourself, weren't you? That must've taken a great deal of courage, to be so honest with me."

He sees the beginnings of tears pooling in her eyes, but behind them, that fire still lingers.

"Yes." She sniffs.

"You saw me. You saw what I did to her... I wouldn't have chosen for you to see that, but you did, and I was forced to be honest with you, and now, I want you to continue what we’ve started. Be honest with me," he says, "Hermione."

Her lip quivers.

"You're angry with me," he says, questioning. "You're furious."

She makes a single, stiff nod.

"Seeing me... seeing what I did; that hurt you."

Another nod.

" _I_ hurt you."

This time when she nods, it is accompanied by a slight whimper.

"You trusted me, and I broke that trust. You looked up to me, you admired me, you even... well, you liked me, didn't you? You had a perception of me built up in your head that didn't align with what you saw me do, and now you feel like that... like _I've_ been taken from you. Don't you?"

She doesn't respond, and the only movement she makes is in the bobbing of her throat.

But then-

A nod.

He breathes outward, gently through his nose.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

When she blinks, a tear rolls down her cheek.

He releases her shoulder, wiping the tear away with his thumb, and the skin of her cheek is soft and warm and like silk.

"Why did you do it?" She whispers, and another tear breaks free. "Why did you..."

He cups her cheek now, his other hand mirroring the gesture, and when she does not move, he leans down and rests his forehead on hers.

"I'm sorry,” he repeats.

"She was a _student_." Her voice cracks. "She was… can't you... couldn't you just make me-make me forget?"

"Oh." He strokes her cheeks with his thumbs, soothing. "No. I would never do that."

"Please.” She grips his forearm. “I don't want to know anymore. _Please_."

"No.” He moves his hands downward, down over her jaw, his fingers resting on the thin skin of her neck. “No, I've seen you now, Miss Granger. I have... no desire to see you go."

She pulls back, but only slightly. "What?"

The skin on her forehead is wrinkled. Her eyes drift back and forth between his.

She is confused, and he-

They are so close, now, and he cannot help it.

He glances down to her lips, and it is his throat that is bobbing now.

She moves before him, and she brings her hands to splay on his chest.

They are small and fragile, and though his robes are beneath, the skin below where she touches is hot and _bothered_ , and he cannot help it when he leans in-

" _What are you doing?!_ "

She is small and fragile, and yet, when she pushes him back, it is with enough force to create some distance between them.

She wipes at her cheeks and they are red, and her eyes, there is understanding there, and they-

They are horrified.

“You- I don’t-” She clenches her eyes closed and when she wrenches them open, she is determined. “You will _pay_ for what you’ve done. You’re a monster, and they will figure you out, and you disgust me, and I want _nothing_ to do with you!”

When she leaves, she slams the door behind her, and though she is gone, the storm she’d brought with her lingers in the office.

It is hot and it is thick, and _she is beautiful_ and as he drags his nails down over his face, he doesn’t think he can breathe.

He wants to follow her.

He wants to chase her like he did that night and wrap his hands around her neck and finish what he should’ve done then, but…

 _But_ …

She is a distraction. She is nothing, but she is brilliant, and she is beautiful, and she is extraordinary, and he doesn’t think he can finish it, not anymore, and he _hates_ her.

He does not follow her.

* * *

Tom does not forget the feel of her.

She is small and fragile, and warm and soft, and he will never forget it.

Her face between his hands, her forehead against his, her hands on his chest.

He cannot stop thinking about it and the relief his hand brings him that night is no relief at all.


	8. Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was going to update every day... but then christmas came... sorry to keep those of you who might've been waiting, waiting...

Tom does not see Miss Granger in his classes for a week, but he knows she is still around, because he sees her from a distance at breakfasts and at dinners.

Intentionally missing classes is unlike her, though he supposes that a great deal of her behaviors lately have been unlike her, and so, Tom allows her to have her time.

It won’t be long before she will come back, he knows. Her N.E.W.T.s are scheduled in five months' time, and he is sure that she would rather gnaw off her own hand than fail her N.E.W.T.s.

But even still, he finds that her absence is equally as distracting as her presence was from his teaching.

Without her in the front row, his attention is not drawn from the other students. He does not find himself glancing back to the front row every five minutes and it is refreshing to see the other students fill in the gaps without her there to answer each of his questions. Yet, he spends more time than he should wondering where she is, instead.

Multiple times that week he had to ask his students to repeat their questions as he was too lost in his own thoughts to hear them.

Multiple times he had to forcibly silence the voice— _where is she, where is she, where is she_ —and reassure himself that she was avoiding him because she simply needed time to process.

She would come back.

She would come back, and when she did, she would be most apologetic for keeping him waiting.

She would come back, and when she did, all would be right again.

* * *

It is not until the following Monday morning, two weeks after his last encounter with Miss Granger, when Dumbledore requests to see him in his office that he learns where she's been.

"Take a seat, Tom."

Tom does as requested, gives a perfunctory smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Dumbledore crosses his wrists, resting them on his desk. "A certain matter has come to my attention, one revolving around a student, Hermione Granger."

Tom blinks, and the action is too quick—driven by reflex—and it is telling.

"Oh."

Dumbledore watches him analytically and now, there is nothing more he can do. To speak any further would suggest knowledge, care, and so, Tom waits.

To be searched the way Dumbledore is currently searching him is unsettling, yet he has become accustomed to it.

He has known Dumbledore for years, and he is well acquainted with the way he probes and pushes when he does not wish to be caught.

Tom is sure that it works on the others. He is sure it works on everyone Dumbledore tries it on, a legilimency so subtle that not even the best the Ministry has to offer would detect it.

But it does not work on him.

"How has she been with you in class, as of late?" Dumbledore asks after a long pause, and Tom, well composed now, frowns.

"Wonderful," he says, and it is not a lie. "She's an extraordinary student."

Dumbledore hums, moving to stroke his beard with thought. "Then, you would understand my curiosity as to why she has requested to discontinue with Defense Against the Dark Arts so close to her final exams."

Again, his composure slips, and again, he is sure that Dumbledore has noticed.

"I..." He swallows. "I doubt I'd have any more of an idea than you," Tom says, voice stiff in his efforts to control it. "This is the first I've heard of it."

He has been quizzed by Dumbledore numerous times over his years; at the orphanage, his closet on fire; at the Ministry, with a panel of ministerial staff for his interview for his current position; and only weeks ago in the same very office, after the murder of Miss Warren.

And yet, this is surely the stupidest he's ever looked in front of Dumbledore.

"And there hasn't been anything leading up to this?" Dumbledore presses, a crease that is not caused by his wrinkles between his brows. "Anything at all?"

"No," he says, probably too quickly. "Not that springs to mind."

"No troubles with the curriculum this year? No trouble with the other students in your class? I do recall some problems with young Mr. Malfoy a few years past."

Tom forces a short smile at the reference to Draco's broken nose. "No, she's... always been a model student. Although..." He shakes his head, and this time it is controlled. "Never mind."

Dumbledore's eyebrows lift. "Hmm?"

"I... I only mean... Miss Granger is head girl. She might have the busiest timetable in the entire school. Don't misunderstand—she's a perfect student, and she performs outstandingly, but Defense is not her top class. Perhaps..." He shrugs. "Perhaps the pressure has finally become too much."

Dumbledore watches him before he slowly nods.

"Yes," he says, and he sounds sad. "Yes, she said something along a similar line, so I suppose that must be it."

Tom mirrors the thoughtful expression of Dumbledore's and waits expectantly.

There is another long pause before Dumbledore says, "thank you, Tom.”

"Albus." Tom nods to Dumbledore, and then he leaves.

And then, he goes to find Miss Granger.

* * *

It takes an hour of searching and the assistance of three other students, but Tom finds them down by the Quidditch pitch locker rooms.

"Weasley. Potter."

"Oh." At the sound of his name, Potter straightens as if he's just been caught doing something suspicious and glances around as if surprised to see him there, so close to the field. "Uh, hullo, Professor."

Weasley brushes his hair back and tucks the quaffle he'd been tossing around under his arm, his features equally as concerned as Potter's.

"I was looking for Miss Granger."

Potter scratches behind his head and exchanges a weighted look with Weasley.

Weasley coughs. "She's... um..."

"In the dormitories," Potter provides before Weasley can finish.

"Y-yeah." Weasley nods. "Hasn’t been feeling too well. Did you... want us to pass on a message?"

Tom stares at them.

_Little fucking liars._

"No, that's all right." He smiles politely. "I'm sure I'll catch her eventually."

* * *

He does, but it is not until two days later and he is forced to resort to questionable methods to do it.

After sending a first year out to give her the message that Dumbledore wished to see her in the Transfiguration classroom during the lunch break, he waits patiently behind the door.

When she gets to the classroom, she enters in a hurry, struggling with her bag that looks overly full of her books. "I'm so sorry, Professor, I was just-"

He pushes the door closed with a flick of his wrist, and seeing him instead of Dumbledore, Granger breathes through her teeth and immediately backs up.

"You can't drop my class," says Tom without anything in the way of greeting before she has an opportunity to speak, and he cannot help the way his eyes rake over her.

She looks to be in half a state of shock, but she manages some level of composure and lifts her chin. "I-I already have."

He steps closer. "Undo it."

Her knuckles whiten around the strap of her bag. "No."

Tom takes a deep, calming breath, though it does nothing to calm him.

"It makes absolutely no sense for you-"

"Dropping your class makes _perfect_ sense.” Her voice is strained around it's edges. “You've been harassing me.”

He sneers. “ _Harassing_ you?”

“Cornering me in the library. Taunting me in classes. Touching me without my consent, tricking me into meeting you here.” Her jaw locks with determination. “Textbook cases of harassment toward a student. I’m putting a stop to it.”

He stares at her in disbelief and then, he laughs.

It is not at all funny, and yet, he cannot help himself because it is ridiculous.

Perfect, stubborn, _beautiful_ Miss Granger; she’d seen him commit murder, and yet her breaking point was a single interaction in his office, a slight slip in his composure?

“Granger.” He licks his lip. “Can you even hear yourself? You’re throwing away years of study, years of hard work, graduating with a near perfect score, all because you—what? You’ve thought yourself into believing that I might have _kissed_ you?”

At once, she is shaken. He has hit the nail on the head, and he can see it in her sharp intake of breath.

He laughs again. “You’re a student. A loud, irritating one, and you’re barely eighteen years old. What interest would I possibly have in _you?_ ”

She is shaken, he knows it, and her lips are quivering, but her eyes are as determined as ever. “I… I was there. I know what happened.”

He tilts his head. “Do you?”

She nods.

“But didn’t you spend years giggling about my attentions with your friends, Brown and Patil?” He asks, and it makes her flinch. “You’ve thought about me kissing you— _more_ than just kissing you—endlessly, and so, of course the first time you’re alone with me in my office, you delude yourself into thinking that I would’ve.”

Like a deer in headlights, she is frozen, caught.

“H- how do you…?”

He smiles, and when he speaks again, he does it gently. “There is no shame in it. You’re young, it’s only natural. Seeing cues, signs that aren’t there… misunderstandings happen. It’s quite all right.”

Her eyes are wide, her cheeks are flushed, and he thinks he has her.

She glances away, and he _knows_ he has her.

But then, she breathes deeply as if to calm herself and bites into her lip, and the next time she meets his eyes, that familiar fire is still there. “I’m dropping your class.” Her tone is resolute. “I graduate in six months, and after that, we'll never see each other again. I have kept my word, and I will continue to keep it as per the conditions of our vow, and then that will be that."

He isn’t smiling anymore, and he cannot help it when he steps toward her. "Hermi—"

"No." She steps backward, eyes him warily. "Whatever you want from me- whatever _this_ is to you- it’s _not_ in my head, I _know_ it, and I want no part in it."

He stares.

Brilliant, _brilliant_ Miss Granger; she holds her chin in a way that says that she thinks she has won, and so, he changes his tactic.

“Why not?”

The quiet sounds abruptly loud at the question, and she straightens, confused. “I…”

“If it’s not in your head, if it is something that I want, if I did want to kiss you…” He glances at her lips. “Then why not?”

She swallows, and again he knows he has taken her off guard. “You’re a murderer.”

He nods. “Yes. I am. But that isn’t it, is it?” He steps another step closer. “That’s not what this is, is it?”

He advances further before she can stop him, taking her jaw between his hands the way he had in his office.

She pulls back, but not enough to free herself. She doesn’t step away, ever the curious one, and his lips spread wide.

“No,” he murmurs. “It isn’t me that disgusts you, what I am. No. The problem for you… is that you do. Want this. Me. You want me more than you ever did before, and that… that’s it.”

She is blinking rapidly now, and the shaking of her head is subtle, barely there.

“You can’t lie to me, Miss Granger. I see you, clearer than you see yourself. I can see the fire in you, longing for you to set it free, for you to let it burn.” He runs the pads of his thumbs under the bone of her jaw. “You fear it. You’re scared that if you let it out, you’ll never be able to reign it back in, but you are… extraordinary. You can learn to control it, and I can give you that.”

She is enthralled. He can see it, and he tightens his hold on her, turning her neck upward so that he can close the distance between them.

And she…

She lets him.

His nose touches her cheek and his lips brush hers without pressure, only just, and his lungs have stopped functioning.

“All you have to do, is let it out.”

His eyes are still open, and he can see that hers have drifted shut, and he has her.

He has her, he has her, he _has_ -

Loud, trampling feet echo in from the corridor, from the students who are surely on their way to their next class.

At the intruding sound, she pulls herself free, and he can feel the distance she puts between them like ice.

He goes to follow her, to close it again, but she-

She shakes her head and she is trembling.

She is scared, _so scared_ , and it’s wrong on her, and he wants to wring her neck and shake it out of her.

But she dashes out of the classroom before he can, and he is stuck with it, that look, that _helplessness_ , and it does not leave him.

It _plagues_ him, and Tom does not see Miss Granger again after that, not in his classes, not at breakfasts and not at dinners.

But he sees her in his dreams. He sees her each time he closes his eyes and every time, she is just as scared, just as helpless, and he…

He is lost.


	9. Nine

Miss Granger does not return to his class.

* * *

Months pass.

Months go by, and Tom does not speak with her at all, though he has seen her three times since the Transfiguration classroom.

The first time, they had passed in the second-floor corridor. She had been walking side by side with Weasley and Potter between classes, and she’d been laughing at something one of them had said.

Her laughs had ceased when she’d spotted him, and then, she kept her head down until he was gone.

Tom specifically remembered it, because he’d closed his fists so tightly that they’d bled.

The second time he saw Miss Granger, she’d been in the library. She was tucked away toward the back in her usual spot, and she hadn’t seen him exchanging his pile of books with Madam Pince.

He’d wanted to speak to her then. He’d wanted to approach her and yell at her for being such a stubborn, foolish child, but she’d said that cornering her in the library had been harassment, and so, he reminded himself that she was nothing, and he left without saying a word.

But the last time he’d seen her, the most recent occasion, they’d spoken.

It had been awkward, and she had looked uncomfortable, but they’d spoken nonetheless.

It’d been at the Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. She’d been climbing up the stands with Miss Lovegood, and he’d been escorting Crabbe down after issuing him a swift detention for sharing in far too much detail and far too loudly, the things he’d like to do if left alone with Gryffindor’s chaser, the youngest Weasley.

“Professor Riddle,” Lovegood had greeted brightly as they passed.

“Luna,” he’d returned. “Hermione.”

Granger’s smile had been forced, but he still remembers it vividly. “Professor.”

Miss Granger’s skills of avoidance have become impeccable since then, and he wastes more time than he ought to wondering what she’s doing for her meals.

In the meanwhile, without the distraction of Miss Granger, Tom busies himself with his classes, grading, once again perfecting his image of the perfect professor to shake off Dumbledore’s eye.

As a consequence, he frequents down to the chamber less and less often. His basilisk is becoming restless, angry even, and at each visit, she hisses at him of her frustrations. But to free her again, so soon, would carry too much risk and would surely result in the closure of the school, so he forbids her to leave the chamber.

She is most put out with him, but he has grown used to that this year, others being put out with him.

And though the months pass, his dreams of Miss Granger do not stop.

* * *

It is most fortunate for Tom when he skips that weekend’s Quidditch match and stumbles across an oversized Gryffindor harboring a wild animal in one of the empty dungeon storage cupboards.

A most fortunate chance of luck, but not surprising.

Fate has always smiled upon him.

* * *

The talks of closing the school cease after the culprit for Warren’s murder is caught, but Dumbledore’s watchful eye does not waver.

* * *

Tom has always liked the astronomy tower.

It has the height of the owlery, with none of the feces. It has the openness of the Quidditch pitch, with none of the practicing players. It is a place that none of the students would expect to find the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor had they been seeking him, and because of that, it is one of his favorite places in the castle.

That morning, the sun rises over the mountains, the sky reflecting a soft shade of pink. There are thestrals flying low over the forests in the distance, and over the castle to the west, parliaments of owl’s circle, various packages and envelopes clutched between their claws.

It is peaceful, watching them.

“Turning in a student to take the blame for you?!”

At the breach of serenity, he whirls around, and she is there; an angry, poised lioness.

Beautiful, beautiful, _awful_ Miss Granger, and he isn’t immediately sure if she is another dream or not.

“Yes,” he says tiredly, not having the energy to argue, and though seeing her, speaking with her has been all he’s wanted over the last few months, he turns back to the view.

“Have you no shame? Don’t you feel even the slightest bit of remorse for what you’ve done?!" she demands. "You weren’t satisfied with taking just take one student’s life, but now you take three?!”

He scoffs, but with the wind, he is sure she wouldn’t have heard it. “Remorse is for the weak,” he mutters.

She makes a sound, indignant, scandalized, and at once, it seems to bury itself in his mind.

Another way in which she will torment him later in his dreams, he is sure.

“I should tell them,” she threatens, and though he isn’t looking, he can hear it, how close she is to crying. She is always crying, and it is infuriating. “About you. About everything.”

He closes his eyes briefly, and then he turns on her.

“Go on, then,” he hisses, and she flinches at his tone. “Tell them. Tell them, and they will watch as you crumble and turn into nothing.”

She does not respond, and the wind blows her hair back from her face, back far enough to make the red rings under her eyes seem more prominent.

But it doesn’t deter him.

“Will they mourn you, do you suppose? Will they miss know-it-all Miss Granger, the girl with the big nose, who once had so much promise, who dropped dead without finishing what seemed to be a most important sentence?”

She looks as though he’s slapped her, and there is a part within him that wishes he had.

“I don’t think so,” he answers himself as he steps closer, and his hands are trembling now. “I think they’ll be glad to see the end of you. I know I will.”

Her features twist, contract with hurt, and anger, and disgust, and then, just as he thinks she will cry-

She spits.

His eyes close in reflex while her saliva meets its mark right on his cheek, and when he opens his eyes, he sees her rage.

It is disarming.

It is so, so beautiful.

“ _Fuck you_.”

The moment she is gone, Tom wipes her spit from his cheek before it can freeze onto his skin, and then, he licks it from his fingers.

* * *

Many sleepless nights later, after another one which felt that it would be endless, when there is only a month until the end of the school year, Tom thinks about leaving.

Everywhere he looks, she is there; horrified, scandalized, distraught Miss Granger, and surely there is not much more that Hogwarts has to offer him.

Surely, he will be better off out of its restrictive walls, away from Dumbledore’s watchful eye, out of the spaces that _she_ has been.

He will take his basilisk with him when he goes, he decides.

She will not like to leave her home after so many centuries, but she will not like to sleep again either, so he thinks she can be convinced.

Traveling with a basilisk will not be easy, but he is sure he can manage, and he could show her the world. They will find somewhere where she can hunt every night, where neither of them will have to hide, and he will finish what he started when he cursed the Riddles down.

Lord Voldemort will rise, at last, at _long_ last, and he will excise all memory of Miss Granger.

She is nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing, and she will soon _be_ nothing.

He thinks about it all morning. He thinks about it throughout his third year Slytherin-Gryffindor glass, and then he thinks about it through his fourth year Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw.

He thinks about it during his marking in his free period, and when classes break for lunch, he has decided.

He is going to do it.

He will write his resignation that very day, that very lunch break, and he will be free.

Free from Dumbledore, free from Hogwarts, free from her.

When he ventures down from his classroom toward his chambers in the dungeons, he does it in a hurry. He takes the stairs by twos, he squeezes through the congregations of students without pause, and he takes the shortcut across the courtyard toward the stairs by the Great Hall.

He makes it halfway across the yard before he abruptly stops.

On the other side of the courtyard, his eye has been caught, and like the nightmare he cannot wake from, the fire festering under his skin, she is there.

Stubborn, awful, beautiful Miss Granger.

The bench she is sitting on is in the sun, and her hair seems to glow. There is a red tinge to it in the light, he can see, and it matches the red on her uniform, her freckles, her brown eyes.

And then, just as he has taken her in, she _laughs._

It is light, and it is carefree, youthful, and though he has seen her laugh countless times over the years, it seems oddly as if this, now, is the first time he’s seen it.

It is wild and raw and at the sound of it, the muscles in his stomach constrict-

But it is then, when she laughs, that he finally notices how close she’s sitting with Weasley, and his-

His hand.

It’s on her thigh.

It is not low, not on her knee. It is not in the middle, not in the way one might grip someone’s thigh after they’d told an exceedingly funny joke. No, Weasley’s hand is higher, high enough that his thumb is surely brushing where her thigh and hips meet, and it is high enough that had he spotted Malfoy sitting with a girl in such a way in the open school grounds, he would’ve deducted points.

Tom cannot look and yet he cannot look away either, and the noises of the courtyard quickly begin to blend together, blend and morph into a loud ring, until Tom cannot hear anything at all, anything but the ringing and the sound of his own breath.

She is close enough to Weasley that their legs, their shoulders are brushing, and Tom’s already tight collar grows tighter.

It grows tighter, _tighter_ , and Weasley is speaking to her now, speaking in low words he cannot hope to guess at, but she is smiling.

There are roses under the skin of her cheeks, and they are the same ones that used to bloom for him.

Tom can hear himself breathing, but it does not feel like he is.

His head is light, and his collar is too tight, _too tight_ …

It makes sense. He knows somewhere that it makes sense.

Potter and Weasley have been by her side for years, of course, of course it makes sense that she’s grown close with them.

But this…

He leaves.

Tom wrenches his eyes from them and turns around to head back the way he came, and while he goes, he pulls off his tie.

He clenches his fists, both of them tight enough that they are both surely bleeding this time, and he is breathing now through his mouth.

He veers off from the corridor into an empty classroom, slamming the door behind him and he is heaving now, loud and ragged, and his skin is hot. His blood is rippling, prickling burning, and _he cannot fucking breathe_.

Tom rips at the collar of his shirt, the buttons tearing from the fabric, and he leans his head against the cold stone of the wall.

_Weasley._

_Fucking useless, waste of space Weasley._

He’s never liked Weasley—any of the Weasley’s for that matter—but now… but this…

He shakes his head at the instinctive thought of killing him.

_You weren’t satisfied with taking just take one student’s life, but now you take three?!_

She wouldn’t like it if he made it four, she wouldn’t like it at all.

No.

No, Miss Granger would most vehemently disapprove, but he cannot- he cannot help it, he cannot help but picture Weasley’s head off of his body, his eyes wide and unseeing.

Tom’s hands come down onto the stone wall harshly, the bones in his palms protesting. He repeats the action again, and again, until his blood is left on the stone, until he cannot feel his hands anymore, and then-

Between his ragged breathing, a sudden high pitch sound.

It slips out, high and surprised, and he cannot control it, and he laughs.

He laughs and laughs, because, now… suddenly…

It is all…

So clear.

He hadn’t seen it before, but it was right in front of him the entire time.

The boy.

The boy is the problem.

He hadn’t seen, he hadn’t known.

Perfect, brilliant, extraordinary Miss Granger; he hadn’t even thought that another had seen her the way he had.

But stupid, thick, worthless Weasley had, and _that_ was the problem.

_The boy_ was the problem, and the boy, too, was the answer.

That day in the transfiguration classroom, she’d so very nearly given into him, but something had held her back.

He’d assumed it was herself. Her own nature, her own stubbornness, her _goodness_.

But he’d been wrong, it hadn’t been her at all, it’d been…

_It was the boy._

His laugh is manic now, because he has a better idea than leaving Hogwarts, and it is simple.

Remove the boy.

Remove the boy, and there will be nothing left to stop her.

Remove the boy, and nothing will be left to hold her back.

Remove the boy, and his basilisk will be most pleased.

Multiple problems, one answer.

Tom is grinning now, and his breathing is beginning to level, his blood beginning to cool.

All too suddenly, it seems that Weasley is not quite so worthless, after all.


	10. Ten

It is not difficult to get a copy of the prefect timetable from Malfoy.

All too eager to impress one of the teachers of his own house, Malfoy hands it over without asking a single question, and with that, Tom knows exactly where he will find an isolated Mr. Weasley.

Late that night after dinner, once all of the students are holed up in the dormitories and all of the portraits are quiet in sleep, he makes his way to the third-floor Charms corridor and take his place in the groove of the main classroom doorway.

He is not followed.

There he waits; patient, silent, a viper in the dark, and while he waits, he thinks of her.

Beautiful, beautiful Miss Granger.

When he is done tonight, she will not know it, but she will be his.

She will be free from the weakness of her attachment, free from obstruction, and when he is done, she will torment him no longer.

And so, Tom waits.

And he waits.

And he waits.

He waits for what feel like hours, and just as he begins to consider whether Weasley has elected to neglect his prefect duties for that evening, the telltale sound of shoe soles dragging on stone, light reflecting from a dimly lit wand.

Tom smiles.

And then he steps out of the doorway.

" _Shit-_ " Weasley jumps, and Tom is almost pleased in seeing that his classes can't have been a complete waste of time, because he very quickly raises his wand. But then, there is recognition, and his wand is back down. "Oh," Weasley breathes loudly. "Blimey, professor. I didn't see you."

"Weasley." It is a good thing the corridor is almost pitch black, for if it were light, Weasley would surely see the excitement in Tom’s blown pupils. "Prefect duties?"

"Yes." Weasley nods. "Sir. Fifteen more minutes."

"It’s a good night for it,” says Tom. “Quiet. I trust your rounds have been... uneventful?"

"Yeah. Found a big old rat though, by the armor?" Weasley gestures back the way he'd come, to where to entrance to the armor gallery is. "Thought it might've been someone's pet and I tried to catch him, but he took a good bite of my thumb and he got away."

Tom frowns as Weasley shows him a small, bloodied gash on his thumb.

He clears his throat and doesn’t comment on it.

"If you aren't busy, would you mind assisting me for a moment?" he asks instead. "Downstairs? There’s a broken bit of magic in the plumbing of one of the bathrooms. It looks to be an easy fix, but it’s one surely in need of two wands."

Ron seems to need a moment to process what he'd been asked. "Oh. _Oh_ , well, I'm... I'm still just on rounds and no offense, sir, but Malfoy can be a bit of a git when we don't finish our assigned rounds, so I think I should-"

"It'll only take a moment." Tom gives a reassuring smile, the sort he'd normally give to his first years. "I won’t say a thing. Malfoy will be none the wiser."

"Err... all right then." Weasley looks uncertain, but shrugs. "If you think I can help."

Tom grins and doesn’t hesitate to begin to lead the way back to the stairs. “Oh, I am most certain that you can.”

* * *

When the basilisk feeds that night, Tom watches until she is done.

She leaves no scrap behind.

* * *

When Tom wakes the next morning, he does so languidly, leisurely stretching out his muscles one by one, and he feels more relaxed than he has in months.

That breakfast passes as most do, slowly, uneventfully, and he makes small talk with Professor Sinistra while he takes his usual coffee and toast with scrambled eggs on the side.

He does not see Miss Granger.

His morning classes go well. He is in an excellent mood, and on that morning, he gives out more points than he has in the last three months put together.

His second and third years are most pleased.

The weather that morning is bright, and although the grounds are still coated in a thin layer of snow, the sun is out. It is shaping up to be a picturesque day, and it is not until lunch time that he is quietly pulled aside by Minerva.

She brings him into her office and gently tells him that a student has gone missing.

She tells him not to panic. She tells him that it is surely not a cause for alarm, not now that Miss Warren’s murderer has been caught, that the two incidents are certainly unrelated, that seventh years dropping out from their studies before their N.E.W.T.s is quite a common occurrence.

But she also tells him that to be safe, they need to conduct a search, and she tells him that they are searching for Ronald Weasley.

Naturally, Tom does all that he can to assist.

While Dumbledore and the other professors search the castle, he accompanies Minerva and Severus into the forest to search between the trees, between the roots, in the inside of the caves of the forest’s known beasts.

Together, they search all afternoon and all evening, and they search well into the night.

They do not find him.


	11. Eleven

Days pass.

Days pass, and there is no sign of Mr. Weasley, and to Tom, there is no sign of Miss Granger, either.

With each day that passes without a sight of her, his disappointment in her grows.

It grows and grows and by the time a full week has passed, he begins to wonder whether he will see her again at all before she graduates.

It is his own fault, he knows. What he’d done had been reckless. He took one of her comforting shoulders from her and was foolish enough to leave the other intact.

It had been short-sighted of him.

He should have taken both.

That week, Tom uses his sleepless nights to think over how he will rectify his misstep.

To do so with such little time remaining in the term will be difficult, and more difficult still, will be covering it up. One teenage boy disappearing at exam time is one thing, but two close friends disappearing sequentially will make a pattern.

Moreover, Potter will be more difficult than Weasley, he knows. Without prefect duties, opportunities to find him alone will be few and far between, and Potter, having been raised by aurors, has been the best student in his class for seven years now.

It will be much harder to fool Potter than it had been to fool Weasley.

But, Tom supposes, he has always enjoyed a challenge.

* * *

It is not hard to see that Potter is miserable in the absence of his red-headed friend.

Without Weasley by his side, he barely pays attention to his classes, and after dismissing his seventh years for the final time that week, Tom watches the way Potter dawdles out on his own, avoiding conversation with his classmates.

That is how he will strike, he decides.

He will offer Potter an open ear.

He will get him alone and reassure him, comfort him in his time of need, and then, when his guard is down, he will snuff him like a candle.

* * *

On Saturday evening, Tom sits alone in his classroom.

He cannot recall a time in his life where he has slept so poorly, and having been busy all day with assisting his students with their N.E.W.T. preparations, by the time the clock strikes eight, the thought alone of making the journey back down to his living quarters in the dungeons makes him groan through his teeth.

He considers sleeping there at his desk, but quickly thinks better of it. His neck would never forgive him.

Slowly, he packs up his desk and tucks his quills into his drawer. He pulls his cloak from the back of his chair and shrugs it on, and just as he stifles a long, drawn out yawn-

A timid knock on the classroom door.

He rolls his eyes. He doesn't know how many times he needs to explain to Miss Abbott and Miss Bones that his office hours are between nine and six, but apparently, he will have to do it at least once more-

The door cracks open before he can speak, and behind it, is not Miss Abbott and it is not Miss Bones.

At the sight of Miss Granger, Tom's lungs empty.

"Can I come in?" She asks even though her head is already in the room, and he swiftly notices that the patches of skin under her eyes and around her nostrils are red, raw.

He nods. "Of course."

She slips inside and when she closes the door behind her, the hairs on his neck begin to prickle with excitement, his tiredness quickly forgotten.

"I take it... you've heard about Ron." She speaks quietly and though she did not word it as a question, he nods. "Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore have said it's likely that his classes became too much, and he's decided to leave the school, the way Fred and George did. His family is keeping watch at home, and they're keeping an eye out in other known communities for any sign of him."

Tom stays silent, watching each and every move she makes like a man starved while she cautiously approaches him.

"But I don't...." She sighs and puts her bag down before she meets his eyes, the action seeming to take some effort. "I don't think that's what happened. If Ron were to have left, he wouldn't have left his things behind. He would have said something, if not to me, then at the very least, he would’ve to Harry."

She steps closer, stops only an arm's reach away.

It takes every ounce of his self-control not to close it, and the way she’s looking at him makes his mouth run dry.

"I don't think he ran away," she states.

"Then,” he says, voice coarse, “what is it that you think has happened?"

Her eyes move, searching him, and he thinks she's focusing on his lips.

"I think he's dead." When she speaks, it is calmly, and with control. "And I think it's because of you."

At the accusation, he angles his neck, goes to deny it, but then, she steps even closer, close enough that her chest is almost brushing his.

"I saw you. The other day in the courtyard, through the bushes. You were watching us." Her voice is quiet, and as close as they are, Tom has to lean closer still to hear her. "I think it made you jealous. I think it made you angry, and I think you... I think you did to him what you did to Myrtle."

The whites of her eyes are red. She looks as if, like him, she has not slept.

There is a lump in his throat, one he cannot seem to swallow down, and it is a strange, uncomfortable sensation, one he can't remember having felt before.

"You told me once that you wanted me to be honest with you," she whispers. "And I was. Now, it's your turn. Now, I want you to be honest with me."

She is so close.

So close.

“Hermione…”

“Is he gone?” She breathes. “Did you do it?”

“I...” When he swallows, it is loud. “I did it for you.”

She exhales then, quickly, shortly, and with it, there is a low whimper.

But she doesn't falter, she doesn't break. She doesn't even look surprised.

As if it is nothing less than she expected, she glances away, licks her lips, and then, she nods.

He reaches out then, fingers under her chin, and he turns her to force her eye. "Hermi-"

"Are you going to kill me, too?"

He swallows, and the mass lodged in his esophagus has grown in size.

He shakes his head.

"But you want to." She is barely whispering now. "That's what you said. You'd be glad to see the end of me-"

"No, I... don't you know what you're doing to me? _Can't you see?_ " He moves his hand to the side of her neck, and she is warm, soft and fragile. "I want to _help_ you. I want to _free_ you, I want to kill the part of you that is holding you back. The part that cared for the boy. The part that keeps you in line, makes you weak, the voice in your head that stops you from being who you’re meant to be, the one that tells you 'no'."

Her lips are parted. She is frowning, and she is confused, and he thinks this is the moment she will run again. This is the moment she will cry and yell and accuse him of awful things and threaten him with Dumbledore.

But then-

"How would you do it?" She whispers, and again, _again_ , he is surprised by her, and he is blinking like a fool. "How would you kill it?"

He actually moans then, because she…

She is…

_Extraordinary._

Extraordinary, strong, ruthless Miss Granger.

"I can show you.” He leans closer, barely leaving an inch between them. “But you have to choose it. You have to want it."

She pulls her lip into her mouth, and when her teeth close around it, his breath catches.

"Show me,” she murmurs.

He cannot help it.

He cannot help the smile that grows on his lips.

He cannot help it, _he cannot help it_ , and then, he kisses her.

She makes a sound, low in her throat and it is hesitant, but she doesn't pull away.

She doesn't pull away, _she doesn't pull away,_ and just as he couldn't help kissing her, he doesn't make a conscious decision to push her back against the desk behind her and pull her flush against him.

Her small hands tighten around his shirt and the groans he makes then are rabid.

He doesn't know what he's doing, but he knows that what he does mustn't be awful, because when he slides his hand under her shirt, and up along the line of her waist, under the strap of her bra, she moans into his mouth.

And then, her legs wrap around his hips and he is pressing against her, and she is warm and inviting, and when she rocks her hips against him, he claws at the desk to stop himself from coming in his pants.

And it is...

_She is..._

So, so beautiful, and tells her, low, lost murmurs he has no control over.

_Mine…_

_…beautiful…_

_…extraordinary…_

The exposed skin of her thighs at the crook of her hips is softer than anything he could’ve imagined, yet it is nothing, _nothing_ compared with the wet heat of her center. With just a touch, it is like a switch.

She bucks against him, she bites at his lip, her fingers pull at the roots of his hair, and the _sounds_ she makes-

He will never forget them, not ever, not for as long as he will live, and they are for him, and she is his, _his, his_ -

He is faintly aware of a series of intruding sounds, footsteps, the sound of a door opening, but he doesn't stop, he doesn't think he can, until Miss Granger uses both hands to shove his chest back.

He sees that her lips are pink, slightly swollen, and she is looking toward the doorway.

He follows suit.

And there, in the doorway, like a bucket of ice water, is Dumbledore. He storms toward them in a fury, and he is not alone.

There is a small crowd behind him; four, maybe five others.

They are all in a similar dark uniform and they all have their wands raised.

And Miss Granger-

She does not look surprised to see them.

_She does not look surprised to see them._

She is…

She is smiling.

"Hermione-"

She looks at him, then, and no longer is she calm.

She wipes her lips with the back of her hand, a show of wiping him away, and she is _incandescent_.

"You will pay for what you've done," she hisses, and while she says it, the men in the advance, yet it is her he cannot look away from. "You will rot. For the rest of your years, _you will rot_."

He sees the pieces, then; they are all there in front of him. He sees them, and yet he cannot put them together, he cannot do a thing, for he is falling.

His stomach is plummeting the way it had the first time he'd slid down the pipe into the chamber, and he very nearly comes then and there in front of all of them at the sight of her.

Because she is incensed and she is not holding back anymore; marvelous, magnificent, _ruthless_ Miss Granger.

She is free, and he doesn't fight it when the aurors pull him away or when they bind his wrists behind his back.

He doesn't argue or yell when he hears Miss Granger say, "I have the confession, Professor,", because all the while, he cannot take his eyes off of her.

She is wild, unleashed.

She is uncontained, at last, _at last_ , and it is because of him.

She is extraordinary, and she is the last thing he sees.


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that this is the last time I increase the chapter count…

Azkaban is not the most pleasant of places, but Tom finds that it is not quite as horrendous as he'd anticipated.

The guards—the dementors—are unrelenting with their presence, and Tom knows it because there is never a pause from sounds of the yelling, begging, screaming of the other inmates that he overhears while in his cell.

But for the most part, the dementors leave him be.

He supposes that what he has left in a soul is not very tempting compared with the others.

But there is no entertainment, no company, no movement to keep him busy, barely enough food to keep him alive, let alone energized, and so despite his best efforts, he spends his days thinking of her.

He thinks of her when he wakes, he thinks of her when he sleeps; her eyes, her pain, her desire, her touch, her smell.

He thinks of her all the fucking time and he realizes very early on in his stay in Azkaban what his mistake had been.

She'd been sworn not to speak about Warren, but she'd made no such vow over Weasley. She'd been free to share her memories with Dumbledore, as long as she only showed him those that revolved around Weasley.

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid.

Devious, treacherous, _cunning_ Miss Granger; she was more of a snake than he'd given her credit for, and like a mouse tempted with a ripe strawberry, he'd fallen right into her trap.

She'd accused him of murder, and she'd known, _she'd known_ that when she asked him for confirmation, he would give it.

He hadn't even needed convincing.

But that wasn't all. Clever, clever Miss Granger hadn't been satisfied with merely locking him up. No, she'd labelled him as a sexual predator to boot. She'd accused him of pursuing a relationship with a student, and like a puppet on a stage, he'd performed for her. Dumbledore and his aurors had _seen_ it, his hands up her skirt, and with that, she was ensured that he would be laid with two charges— _two!_ Enough to ensure that her threats of spending the rest of his years in Azkaban were not empty, and that he would forever be known as the child murderer and molester of Hogwarts.

And yet, when Tom thinks it all over as he lays on the cold, damp stone of his cell, he laughs.

He laughs because it is ridiculous.

He has been subjected to a lifetime within the wet walls of Azkaban; a lifeline of isolation, and starvation, and weakness, and rot, and he has been subjected to it by a fucking _schoolgirl._

And after it all, it only makes him want her more.

* * *

Though the years pass, he never stops thinking about Miss Granger.

* * *

Somewhere along the line, somewhere between his seventh and eighth year in Azkaban, Tom loses track of how long he's been there.

The days blend into one another, the dark walls of his cell rendering it impossible to distinguish day from night, and all the while, he receives no mail. He receives no visitors, not even Rosier or Dolohov, not a single one aside from the occasional dementor, and the only company remaining to him is the company of himself.

Aside from the steady pace of growth of his hair and his nails, he has no outside indication of much time he has served, and it is that, he thinks, that is the true torture of Azkaban.

Though the dementors leave him be, time does not.

And time is a far worse monster than a dementor will ever be.

* * *

Tom withers.

He wastes away in his cell slowly, but surely, and he often wonders whether being tethered to life by his horcruxes would be a better existence than the one he currently has.

Between his thoughts of her, he wonders, and he wonders, and he wonders whether he would be able to see her, then?

He wonders whether he could do it. He wonders whether beating his head on the stone until his body succumbed to its mortality would be more painful than the slow passing of time.

He doesn’t think it would be, and yet, he cannot bring himself to do it.

He cannot bring himself to do it, because every time he thinks of it, he thinks of her; her eyes, her pain, her desire, her touch, her smell.

He continues to wonder as the nights and days drag on, and he wonders, he tosses, and he turns, until one day, he has an idea.

It is a simple idea, not a complex one at all, one that is so simple, that he thinks if _she_ were in Azkaban, she would’ve thought of it years ago.

It is simple, but he thinks, at long last, that he has a way out.

* * *

The dementors pay him no mind.

Not during their rounds, not during the night, not during the day, and especially, not during feedings.

That day, night—he doesn’t know which—when they come to his cell to deposit the tray of diced, under cooked fish, Tom simply… walks out.

He slinks out of the cell past the dementor who’d fed him, and past the one in the hall, and when he makes it down the winding stairs, he passes three more.

They pay him no mind.

He walks out as if they are blind, and they do not seem to care.

He wonders, briefly, if they will notice his absence after a while. He may only have a quarter of a soul, but he is sure its presence must be detectable. But then, as he’s had the thought, Tom decides that it does not matter.

He doesn't need his freedom for long. Just long enough to find her.

_Ruthless, cunning, brilliant Miss Granger._

She may not have wanted him then, but she will want him now, he is sure.

She has had years to stew, to toss, and to turn, and what is it that they say? Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

She will want him.

She will want him, or else this time, he will make her.


	13. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ........................please don't be mad at me

Freedom, Tom discovers, has a smell, and it smells just like her.

* * *

It is not hard to locate the home of the illustrious Hermione Granger.

Beautiful, ruthless Miss Granger is quite prolific these days owing to her work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, and the newspapers he’d stolen from the apothecary are all Tom needs to discover it.

She has made a name for herself, just as he always knew she would, and when he brushes his fingers over her smiling photograph, they burn.

_Extraordinary._

Never having moved far from the Ministry, he learns that she lives in a modest home outside of London, and she does not live there alone.

It has been three years since Miss Granger has been Miss Granger. She is married, now, and she is married to an animal; a large, Bulgarian Quidditch player, a brute.

The thought of it has bile rising in his throat, but it matters not, Tom thinks. They have no children, and a husband is not a problem that he cannot solve.

When he arrives on the street front, the house is dark. All of the lights seem to be out, but when he ventures around into the back yard, he sees that there is a faint light on upstairs.

She is here. _He knows it._

He tries the backdoor of the house, and he finds it is warded.

They are strong wards, solid and thick, but it is _he_ who had taught her to construct such wards, and it is with ease that they disintegrate under the wand he’d stolen with the newspapers.

He enters, and the house is warm, decorated modestly. The furnishings are beige, boring, and they are accented with shades of red. His eyes, well accustomed now after yeas in the dark, have no trouble spotting the pictures on the wall; family, friends, the occasional newspaper clipping.

It tells that she is proud of her accomplishments, and in turn, Tom feels the slightest burst of his own pride.

Brilliant Miss Granger, brilliant still, after all of these years.

The light spilling down from upstairs is dim, and at the soft sounds of footsteps echoing from the upper storey, Tom’s heart hurries.

She is here. She is here, she is here, _she is here_ , he knows it, he can _taste_ it.

He toes his way up the wooden stairs, and from the landing, he sees that there is a light shining from under a door. A bathroom, he suspects, and he keeps moving forward, toward the open door by the end.

The light is on in the room it leads into, and it is clearly a bedroom.

It feels like her.

He enters without hesitation and there is another room branching off—an en suite, perhaps.

He scans the room quickly. While he sees no sign of movement, he quickly spies two wands placed on the dresser.

Tom snatches them both up.

Foolish, _foolish_ Miss Granger.

"Viktor!"

At the sound, Tom’s chest constricts. Her voice is muffled and distant, coming from down the hall, back the way he’d come, and yet, it is the same.

It is the same as he remembers, and she is here, _she is here_ -

There are a series of thuds from the within the en suite, and then, in the doorway, appears a man.

_Viktor._

He is easily twice Tom’s size, and at the sight of a foreign man in his bedroom, the brute’s eyes widen with shock.

“Vat are-”

“ _Avada kedavra._ ”

A flash of green, and then Vikor falls loudly to the ground. Problem solved, and Tom can feel it in his bones, her proximity, her smell, her fire.

He turns away from Viktor, going to leave, to find her, but then the bedroom door pushes open, and she leisurely walks in.

"Vikt-" She stops.

A soft moan slips past Tom’s lips when his eyes rake over her, and she is not the same as he remembers. She has aged considerably, at least by a decade, and the lines on her face are harder. She is softer, too; not quite so lean, but he easily recognizes her all the same.

His heart is racing now and his fingertips burn, _burn_.

"Miss Granger."

She gasps and she is frozen, shocked into stillness. She is clearly, plainly terrified, and _oh_ , she remembers him, _she remembers him_ ; terrified, beautiful, _beautiful_ Miss Granger-

He smiles. "I've missed you."

"Wha-" Her attention locks onto the fallen body by the side of the bed, and when she speaks next, it is to the body that she speaks. "...Viktor?"

Tom licks his lips. "You didn't visit. Not once," he says, and he looks at Viktor. "And… you didn't wait for me."

"You... Vik- no, this isn't... you're not..." She is trembling now, and she closes her eyes briefly, clenching them shut. " _Viktor-_ "

She steps closer, heading toward Viktor, but when he steps between them, she halts.

Tom drinks her in, and he cannot get enough.

"But I forgive you, Hermione,” Tom murmurs, and then he laughs. “Oh, it’s been so long, since I’ve… _Her-my-oh-knee_.” He groans at the sound of her name.

But she is trembling all over, chest heaving, and her eyes flick down to the wands in his hand. “What… what did you do to him?”

“He’s out of our way,” says Tom, and when she takes a step back from him, he follows. “Don’t be scared. I did it for _you_ , Miss Granger." He approaches further still. "For us."

She glances back down to Viktor and closes her eyes.

And then, she runs.

Like all those years ago, she has seen him, the body at his feet, and she runs.

And just like he'd done all those years ago, Tom chases her.

* * *

She has aged and grown, yet she is still quick as a rabbit. But he is not just a fox anymore—no, no—he is a starved, desperate one now, and he catches her downstairs when her hands are fumbling at the front door.

She fights him, yelling and thrashing, and kicking back at him, but he has been hardened. Years locked in a cell have stripped him of his ability to feel minor pains, and he pulls her against him and turns her around without any trouble.

He slams her back against the door, his hand big enough to grasp both of hers together over her head and she screams.

He presses his body into hers, stopping her thrashing and closes in. "I'm a bit put out with you at the moment, Miss Granger," he confesses low into her ear. "Now would not be the time to be difficult-"

" _Fuck_ _you!_ " She kicks, her knee colliding dangerously close with his upper thigh, and he growls. “Get _off of me,_ you _monster-!_ ”

"I don't want to hurt you, I only want-”

“You will get _nothing_ from me! You’ll have to kill me, you’ll-”

He didn’t want to do this.

He didn’t want to, _didn’t want to_ , but she is stubborn as she's always been, and he thought it might come to it.

The wand and the newspapers were not the only things he’d stolen from the apothecary, and between his struggles with Miss Granger, he manages to reach into his pocket and pull out the small vial.

The vial in one hand and her hair in another, he wrenches her head back by her hair and forces the bottle to her lips.

"Drink up, my love." He pulls harder, forcing her head as far back as her neck will allow, and it does not stop her from thrashing against him. "You'll feel so much better."

He does not let up. He doesn’t let her go until he knows that gravity has done its job and he has seen her throat move.

When he lets her go, she splutters and coughs, and spits and wretches, and when she is done, she sobs and grips at her head.

“No!” She sobs. “No, no, no, I won’t, I won't! I will never, I will never…”

He reaches out, gripping her chin once more. Her eyes are clenched shut. “Look at me, Miss Granger. _Look at me_."

Her eyes crack open, and as soon as they do, he feels her muscles begin to relax. She opens her eyes all the way and when her eyes meet his, her brows furrow. She blinks and she looks as if she's woken from a long nap and has forgotten where she'd fallen asleep. But then-

Her features soften and she breaks out in a smile.

She smiles at him.

_She is smiling at him._

"Tom," she breathes, and her voice is airy, euphoric, and at the sound of his name leaving her lips, he cannot help it.

His hold on her becomes gentle, and he brushes her hair back from her face with his other hand, and she is warm, soft, and delicate, and she is all he remembered, and she is his, now, _his-_

She closes her eyes and sighs warmly into his touch, and she brings her hands to circle around his bony wrists. “I…” she whimpers and when she meets his eyes, she licks her lips. “I didn’t realize it before. I thought I… I hated you, but now, I… I think… I think I’m in love with you.”

In her eyes, the fire that was once there has burned out and only embers remain, but he doesn't mind, he thinks.

He doesn’t mind, because she is here in his arms, she is his, and she’s said it at last, at _long_ last, she loves him, _she loves him_ -

It might be the potion, he knows. It might not be true, not _yet_ , at least, but over time… over time, she will learn.

She will learn to be happy. She has always been brilliant, _extraordinary_ , and like everything else he has taught her, he will teach her to love him properly.

But for now—only temporarily—this will have to do.

And it is enough.


End file.
